Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz)

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Your friend Lavelle had left a note in his diary.’ This time it was Jones who had replied, speaking through broken teeth and lips that were stained with blood. He still had not touched his wine.

  ‘No! I will not accept that, Inspector Jones. Scotchy would never have been so stupid.’

  ‘And yet I assure you it is the case.’

  ‘Will you still assure me in half an hour’s time? We shall see. You were responsible for the failure of that particular enterprise and at the time I was prepared to accept it. It was, after all, just one of many. But what I cannot accept, what must be answered tonight, is your intrusion into the legation. How did you come to be there? What led you to me? For the sake of my future safety in this country, I must know. Do you hear what I am telling you, Inspector Jones? This is why I have taken such pains to bring you here. You came face to face with me in my own home. Taking advantage of my affliction, you humiliated me. I am not saying that I intend to punish you for this, but I must take steps to ensure that it never happens again.’

  ‘You have too great a belief in your own abilities,’ Jones said. ‘Finding you was simple. The trail from Meiringen to Highgate to Mayfair and to the legation was obvious. Anyone could have followed it.’

  ‘And if you think we’re going to tell you our methods, you can go to the devil!’ I added. ‘Why should we talk to you, Devereux? You plan to kill us anyway. Why not just get it over with and be done with it?’

  There was a lengthy silence. Throughout all this, Edgar Mortlake had been staring at us with a silent, smouldering hatred, while the other men stood around, barely interested in what was being discussed.

  ‘All right. So be it.’ Devereux had been twisting the middle finger of his glove. Now his hands fell to his sides. He seemed almost saddened by what he had to say.

  ‘Do you know where you are? You are underneath Smithfield, one of the greatest meat markets in the world. This city is a ravenous beast that feeds on more flesh than you can begin to imagine. Every day, it arrives from all over the world – oxen, pigs, lambs, rabbits, cocks, hens, pigeons, turkeys, geese. They travel thousands of miles from Spain and Holland and much further afield, from America, Australia and New Zealand. We are on the very edge of the market here. We cannot be heard and we will not be disturbed. But not so far from where you are sitting, the butchers in their half-sleeves and aprons have arrived. Their carts and wicker baskets are waiting to be filled. Snow Hill is around the next corner. Yes. The market has its own underground station and soon the first train will draw in, direct from Deptford docks. It will be unloaded here … five hundred tons a day. All that life reduced to tongues and tails, kidneys, hearts, hindquarters, flanks and endless casks of tripe.

  ‘Why am I telling you this? I have a personal interest which I will share with you, before I leave you to your fate. My parents came originally from Europe but, as a child, I was brought up in the Packinghouse District of Chicago and remember it well. My house was on Madison Street, close to the Bull’s Head Market and stockyards. I see it all even now … the steam hoists and the refrigerator cars, the great herds being driven in, their eyes wide with fear. How could I forget? The meat market pervaded my life. The smoke and the smells were everywhere. In the summer heat, the flies came in their tens of thousands and the local river ran red with blood – the butchers were not too delicate when it came to the disposal of offal. Enough meat to feed an army! I say it quite literally for much of the produce was sent to feed the Union troops who were still fighting the Civil War.

  ‘Will it surprise you to learn that I grew up with the strongest disinclination ever to eat meat myself? From the moment I was able to make my own decisions, I became what has come to be called a vegetarian – a word that originated here in England, you might like to know. The lifelong condition from which I have suffered I also blame on my childhood. I used to have nightmares about the animals trapped in their pens, awaiting the horrors of the slaughterhouse. I saw their eyes staring at me through the bars. And somehow their fear transmitted itself to me. In my young mind, it occurred to me that the animals were safe only while they remained locked up, that once they were removed from their cages they would be butchered. And so I in turn became afraid of open spaces, the outside world. As a child, I drew the covers over my head before I could sleep. In a way, those covers have remained in place ever since.

  ‘I ask you both for a moment to consider the suffering and cruelty inflicted on animals simply to sate our appetite. I mean this quite seriously, for it has a bearing on your immediate future. Let me show you …’ He walked over to the tables and gestured at the objects on display.

  I could not help myself. For the first time, I examined the saws, the knives, the hooks, the steel rods and the branding irons that had been laid out for our benefit.

  ‘Animals are beaten. They are whipped. They are branded. They are castrated. They are skinned and thrown into boiling water and I do not believe that they are always dead when this is done. They are blinded and they are brutalised and at the very end, they are hung upside down and their throats are cut. All of this will happen to you if you do not tell me what I wish to know. How did you find me? How do you know so much about my business? Who do you actually work for?’ He held up a hand. ‘You, Inspector Jones, are with Scotland Yard. And you, Mr Chase, are with Pinkerton’s. But I have dealt with both these organisations in the past and I know their methods. The two of you are different. You break international conventions by entering the sanctity of a legation and I begin to wonder which side of the law you are actually on. You interview Scotchy Lavelle and the next day he is murdered. You arrest Leland Mortlake and seconds later he dies with a poisoned dart in his neck.

  ‘I take a great deal of risk in dealing with you in this manner and, believe me, I wish it could be otherwise. I am above all a pragmatist and I know that the forces of the law – both in England and America – will redouble their efforts after your deaths. But I have no alternative. I must know. The one thing I can offer you, if you will co-operate and tell me the truth – is a fast and painless end. The smallest blade, inserted into the spine of a bull, will kill it instantly. The same can be done for you. There is no need for violence. Tell me what I want to know and it will be much easier for you.’

  There was a lengthy silence. Far away, I heard the sound of metal striking metal but it could have been a mile away, above or beneath the surface of the road. We were utterly alone, surrounded by the six men who were preparing to do unspeakable things to us. And our screams would do us no good. If anyone did chance to hear us, we would simply be mistaken for animals being slaughtered.

  ‘We cannot tell you what you want to know,’ Jones replied, ‘because your assertions are based on a false premise. I am a British police officer. Chase has spent the last twenty years working with the Pinkertons. We followed a trail, albeit a strange one, that led us to the legation and to Chancery Lane. It is possible that you have enemies of whom you are ignorant. Those enemies led us to you. And you yourself were careless. Had you not communicated with Professor Moriarty in the first place, our investigation would never have begun.’

  ‘I did not communicate with him.’

  ‘I read the letter with my own eyes.’

  ‘You are lying.’

  ‘Why would I lie? You have made my situation perfectly clear to me. What do I have to gain by deceit?’

  ‘The letter may have been written by Edgar or Leland Mortlake,’ I cut in. ‘Perhaps it came from Scotchy Lavelle. But it was just one of many mistakes that you made. You have the upper hand, but do what you will with us, others will come after us. Your time is over. Why do you pretend otherwise?’

  Devereux looked at me curiously, then turned back to Jones. ‘You are protecting someone, Inspector Jones. I do not know who they are, nor why you are prepared to suffer so much on their account, but I am telling you that I know it. How do you think I have survived so long, untouched by the law and unhindered by those rivals who would gladly se
e my downfall? I have an instinct. You are playing me false.’

  ‘You are wrong!’ I shouted, and at the same time I launched myself out of my chair. I had taken Mortlake and the other men unawares. They had been lulled by Devereux’s long speech and our own seeming lethargy. Now, before anyone could stop me, I threw myself onto Devereux, one hand grabbing his silk waistcoat, the other around his throat. Would that I could have reached one of the knives set out on the table! Still, I brought him crashing to the ground and was half-strangling him when several hands seized hold of me and I was pulled free. I felt a cosh strike against the side of my head, not hard enough to knock me unconscious, and a moment later someone’s fist crashed into the side of my face. Dazed, and with fresh blood streaming from my nose, I was thrown back into my chair.

  Clarence Devereux stood up, his face pale with anger. I knew that he had never been attacked in this way – certainly not in front of his own men. ‘We are finished,’ he rasped. ‘I had hoped we might conduct ourselves as gentlemen but the business between us is over and I will not stay to watch you being torn apart. Mortlake! You know what to do. Do not let them die until you have heard the truth – then report back to me.’

  ‘Wait …!’ Jones cried.

  But Devereux ignored him. He climbed back into the coach. The driver pulled hard on the reins, turning the horses round. Then he whipped them on and the whole contraption disappeared down the tunnel, the way they had come.

  Mortlake walked over to the table. He took his time, running his hand over the implements. Finally he chose what looked like a barber’s razor. He flicked it open to reveal a curious notched blade which he held up to the light. The six men from the cemetery closed in on us.

  ‘All right,’ Mortlake said. ‘Let’s begin.’

  NINETEEN

  A Return to Light

  After the beating I had received, I was too weak to move. I could only sit there watching as Mortlake balanced the razor at his fingertips, holding it out before him as if to admire its beauty. Never before had I felt so helpless. At that moment, I accepted that I had set too much store by my own capabilities and that all my plans and aspirations were about to come to this bloody end. Clarence Devereux had beaten me. Small consolation that he had briefly felt my fingers around his throat. Their impression would have faded long before he reached the safety of the legation and by then I would be lost in a vortex of pain. I felt hands fall, heavy, on my shoulders. Two of Mortlake’s men had approached and stood either side of me, one of them holding a length of rope. The other grabbed hold of my wrist, preparing to tie me down.

  But then Inspector Jones spoke. ‘Hold off!’ he said, and I was astonished to hear him sound so calm. ‘You are wasting your time, Mortlake.’

  ‘You believe so?’

  ‘We will tell you everything your master wishes to know. There is no need for this squalid and inhuman behaviour. It has been made clear to us that we are to die in this place so what is to be gained by remaining silent? I will describe to you, step by step, the journey that brought us here and my friend, Mr Chase, will corroborate every word I say. But you will find it of little value. Let me assure you of that now.’ Jones had drawn up his walking stick across his lap as if it might provide a barrier between himself and his tormentors. ‘We have no secrets and no matter how much you debase yourself in God’s eyes, you will discover nothing that will be of any use.’

  Mortlake considered, but only briefly. ‘You don’t seem to understand, Inspector Jones,’ he replied. ‘You have information and I am sure you will provide it. But that is no longer the point. My brother Leland died in your custody and even if his killer was completely unknown to you, I hold you responsible and will make you pay. I might start by removing your tongue. That is how indifferent I am about what you have to say.’

  ‘In that case, I’m afraid you leave me no choice.’ Jones swung the stick round so that the tip faced towards Mortlake and at the same moment I saw that he had unscrewed the raven’s head to reveal a hollow interior. Holding the stick with one hand, he inserted the index finger of the other and twisted. At once there was an explosion, deafening in the confined space, and a great red chasm appeared in Mortlake’s stomach even as gobbets of blood and bone erupted out of his back. The blast had almost torn him in half. He stood there, the knife falling away, his arms thrown forward, his shoulders hunched. A wisp of smoke curled up from the bottom of the walking stick which, I now understood, had concealed an ingenious gun. Mortlake groaned. Fresh blood poured over his lip. He fell to the ground and lay still.

  The gun had one bullet only.

  ‘Now!’ Jones shouted and the two of us rose up from our chairs together, even as the six remaining hoodlums stared in wonderment at what had occurred. With remarkable speed – I would never have expected him to be so vigorous – Jones lashed out with the stick and although it was now useless as a firearm, it struck the man nearest to him in the face, sending him reeling back with blood spouting from his nose. For my part, I seized hold of the rope which would have been used to bind me and pulled it towards me, then swung my elbow into the throat of my assailant who, losing his balance, was unable to defend himself and fell, gurgling, to his knees.

  For just one brief instant, I thought that we had succeeded and that against all the odds we were going to make good our escape. But I had allowed my imagination and the sudden reversal of fortune to get the better of me. There were still four thugs who had not been harmed and two of them had produced revolvers. The man whose face Jones had struck was also armed and I could see that he was in no mood for reasoned debate. They had formed a semi-circle around us and were about to fire. We could not reach them. There was nothing to prevent them gunning us down.

  And then the lights went out.

  The gas lamps, long lines of them stretching in every direction, simply flickered and died as if extinguished by a sudden rush of air. One moment we were trapped, about to die. The next we were plunged into a darkness that was all-encompassing, absolute. I think there might have been a part of me that wondered if I had not indeed been killed, for surely death would not be so very different from this. But I was alive and breathing and my heart was most certainly pounding. At the same time, I was utterly disconnected from everything around me, unable to see even my own hands.

  ‘Chase!’

  I heard Jones call out my name and felt his hand on my sleeve, pulling me down. The truth is that by doing so he saved my life. Even as I dropped to the ground, Mortlake’s gang opened fire. I saw the blaze of the muzzles and felt the bullets as they fanned out over my head and shoulders, smashing into the wall behind me. Had I remained standing, I would have been torn apart. As it was, I was fortunate to avoid any ricochets.

  ‘This way!’ Jones whispered. He was crouching beside me and, still holding onto my arm, he pulled me with him, away from the men, away from the torture implements spread over the tables, further into the great nothingness that our world had become. There was a second blast of guns but this time I felt that the bullets came less close and I knew that with every inch that we shuffled away, the chances of our being hit were diminishing. My hand felt something. It was the wall of the passageway that had been behind us when Devereux was making his speech and through which we had first entered. Following Jones’s lead I stood up, pressing my hands against the brickwork. I was still blind. But if I stayed close to the wall, it would surely lead me out.

  Or so I thought. Before we could take another step, a yellow light glimmered, spreading over the floor and illuminating the whole area around us. With a sense of dread, I turned and saw Mortlake spread out on the ground and, next to him, the man with the beard and the broken nose who had first addressed us at the cemetery. He was holding up an oil lamp that he had somehow managed to light. Despite all our efforts, we had moved only a short distance from the group. Not far enough. Once again, we were in plain sight.

  ‘There they are!’ he shouted. ‘Kill them!’

  I saw the guns turned o
n me once more and with a sense of resignation, I waited for the end. But we were not the ones who died.

  Something invisible punched the man in the head. The side of his skull exploded and a spurt of red liquid burst out over his shoulder. As he tumbled sideways, still clutching the oil lamp, distorted shadows fell over the other five men. They had not yet had a chance to shoot and by the time their companion crashed to the floor, it was too late. The light had gone out again. He had been shot – but by whom? And why? We could not answer these questions now. In the dark or in the light, we were still in mortal danger and would be until we reached the surface and the safety of the street.

  Taking advantage of the confusion behind us – our assailants were still not certain what had occurred – we broke into a stumbling run. I was aware of two contradictory impulses warring in my mind. I wanted to be away as quickly as I could but, being quite blind in the pitch dark, I was also afraid of crashing into some obstacle. I could hear Jones somewhere beside me but I was no longer sure if he was near or far. Was it my imagination or was the ground rising slightly beneath my feet? That was the crucial test. The higher we climbed, the more likely we were to reach street level where we might be safe.

  And then I saw a light flickering about fifty yards away, a candle lit by a match. How could it be? Who had lit it? I staggered to a halt and called out to Jones, a single word. ‘There!’ It was directly in front of us, a tiny beacon surely designed to draw us out of danger. I had no sense of distance, not knowing even where I stood. I was certain that the candle had been placed there deliberately to help us, but even if it had been lit by the devil himself, what choice did we have? Moving faster, hearing the footsteps of our pursuers close behind, we pressed forward. Another gunshot. Again the bullet rebounded off the wall and I felt brick dust stinging my eyes. A shouted profanity. And then something else, still far away, but coming rapidly closer – a huge sound, a heavy panting, the grinding of metal, and I smelled burning. The air around me became warm and moist.